


A moment of respite

by Space_pooch



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-08 14:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_pooch/pseuds/Space_pooch
Summary: (Thronebreaker spoilers) Queen Meve and Reynard slip away from a stuffy memorial to the Brossards to celebrate their friend's life amongst more lively company. Under a Rivian night sky, they finally have the chance to think about what the future will hold for them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译]片刻小憩](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512958) by [nattraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nattraven/pseuds/nattraven)



> Yeah so this was meant to be a one-shot. But the writing is done. Will upload the last chapter by mid-May.

“Don’t you dare” Meve hissed at Reynard.

“Forgive me, your Grace, I cannot --” his voice disappeared into a long yawn which the general attempted to hide by dropping his chin below the lip of his breastplate.

“Blast. Now you’ve set me --” Meve felt the rear of her jaw stretch up despite her desperate wishes. She touched her handkerchief to her nose and bowed her head slightly as though in grief. She was grateful for the veil.

The pair were in attendance at the supper following the unveiling of the rebuilt Brossard mausoleum. It had been amongst the first of Meve’s civic rebuilds after the war and many of the aristocracy, or at least of those that had remained in the city, had come forward with donations and stories of their previous dealings with the Brossards. Meve had listened to them eagerly at first. But in time, she learned that the Brossards had been a wealthy family much like any other. They had had their foibles and their station had shielded the young Gascon from many of life’s hardships, at least until her late husband, Reginald, had ordered their end.

She hoped that her friend may rest easy in the knowledge that his family name would be well cared for. But she also mourned that the man himself could not be present to receive his most deserved honours. To easing that grief, the pomp and pageantry of the evening could contribute nothing.

The Brossard crest dotted the walls of the banquet hall that they had returned to sup in following the opening of the mausoleum. The tables heaved with rich foods - largely purchased from merchants who had flowed into the city following the war, well aware that the wealthy would not wait long for their jams and cheeses as the local farms recovered from Nilfgaardian occupation.

Meve eyed the guests. There were three distinct demographics. The older of the room had found each other and indulged happily in the wine and food, satisfied in their station and supposed value to the queen, won for them by their peer, Gascon of the Brossards. There was a smaller, more sedate group who sat to the side, drinking quietly and deep in conversation. They contained those who had known the Brossards more closely, had witnessed their revolt and their end. Perhaps they were considering how swiftly the fates spun upon a single household.

Finally, the younger of the guests had spent the evening jostling for an audience with her. They had no history with the Brossards - they were too young. But they sought an opportunity to promote specific rebuild projects over the others to service their own interests. Meve had been entangled in similar conversations all day with her engineers and with the other rulers of the North via letter. But the scale of the problems were much smaller and, this evening, after many weeks without rest travelling between Lyria and Rivia, they were to Meve as botflies were to a weary heffer.

She was grateful to Reynard whose presence by her side, standing slightly in front of her, stern and impassive, was enough to deter the majority of the hopefuls. However, he could not be by her at all times and, in those moments that he left her, she saw that he had his own troubles and pests. An unmarried Count, hero of the war and right hand of the queen, was a prospect of significant interest within present company.

Meve tipped her goblet to one side, allowing the wine up to the very lip before tilting it back the other way. She took a drink beneath the veil and stole a glance at Reynard who was in conversation with some Lady or another. She felt no jealousy and amused herself at the thought that, should Reynard have ever wished to court someone, he may well have asked for her permission.

But they also had not spoken since that day. He had understood her proposal and, at the time, she had interpreted his response as an acceptance. But the needs of the kingdom, nay, kingdom _s_ had come crashing into their lives before they’d had a chance to properly take stock. Now it was meetings, visits and accounting again. Now it was “your Grace” again, never “Meve”.

She was unsure how best to broach the subject. Furthermore, since deciding to pursue Reynard, new fears had arisen and she also suspected that he was avoiding the subject. He was always first to depart briefings and was rarely alone in her company. She took her wine from her lips and began tipping her goblet back and forth again, red tides ebbing and flowing below her.

He looked tired. The bags beneath his eyes were dark and in more tedious conversations she saw his gaze go vacant. But his ceremonial armour gleamed and, to the unfamiliar eye, he was the very image of Lyrian valour  and manhood.

“Mother, you should not be here. You should not be _upright_.” Villem had appeared at her side.

“These are the burdens or royalty. As you shall someday learn.”

“Nay, these are the burdens of pride. Your letter-writing and meetings are one thing. Wining and dining the aristocracy as they wax lyrical about the wider Brossard clan who - may I add, Gascon barely knew - that is pride.”

“I’ll give you that. But it is also loyalty - something at which you are yet inexperienced.”

These jousts had become more frequent since Meve and Villem had settled back in Lyria. Far from resenting it, she felt pride every time her son’s insight struck true and, consequently, every point she earned against him became sweeter.

“Tell me, son, what do you make of our Count Odo.”

Villem rolled his eyes.

“You must allow me to refrain from answering.”

“Oh - have you some complaint?”

“Of _you_ perhaps.”

Reynard, able to smell a spat at a hundred paces, appeared. “Are we playing nicely, your majesty?”

“My mother just asked me a question which I intend to answer. Should you like to know it?”

Meve felt her son testing her limits, gently pushing and learning the bounds of his own bravery and intelligence. She was about to respond sharply but was distracted by discontented noises coming from the entrance of the hall. It sounded like urgent whispering, pointed sarcasm and eyebrows raised so high they made the skin they sat upon creak. More curious was that the sound of discontent was gradually approaching. Reynard took a step to Meve’s side as he always did at first sign of trouble.

By the time the cause of discontent had reached them, however, Reynard’s concern had changed to curiosity, to confusion and, finally, to mere amusement. The mage Isbel stood before the queen and prince. While a trusted member of the court, she yet dispensed with the need for shoes at any and all occasions. This insistence to go without footwear was matched only by her insistence to always wear her straw hat, regardless of the state of the blooms she wove into it. While the mage and her deeds were well known and spoken of in court, the nobility of the North had yet to adjust to her preferred attire – and Meve was too amused to encourage either party to change their ways.

“Your Majesties, Count Odo” Isbel greeted.

“What news, Isbel?” Meve asked, unsure of whether she would prefer to stay at the memorial banquet or be drawn away by some fresh problem.

“Always so direct, your grace. I come bearing an invitation to you.” She began to whisper so that the other three had to lean in to hear. “Gascon’s men have chosen the morrow as their day to part ways and they honour their fallen leader and brothers one last time tonight. Some members of your army will be in attendance and they have extended the invitation to yourself should you think it appropriate.”

Meve failed to hide her enthusiasm. “Where is this being held?”

“The village of the Three Brooks. The villagers hosted the Strays these past weeks. Some of the party will be staying on to work the land. Others will be moving on come the morrow.”

“Three Brooks. That’s beyond th’ castle walls” Reynard said sternly.

“Indeed, but it is trusted company,” Isbel said, “And I imagine that there could be no objection if the Queen’s trusted general were to accompany her.”

Meve bit her lip. She had rebuilt the Brossard mausoleum to honour Gascon and his family. But this may be the last opportunity for her to be amongst those living who loved him best.

“You must go, mother.” Villem stepped forward. “In the interests of decorum and safety, take Reynard, but don’t fret about the remainder of the memorial. I did not know Gascon long, but I think he would’ve wished you to be by the fireside, not stuck in a dimly lit hall being breathed on by swollen barons.”

“Are you certain, your majesty?” Reynard asked.

Villem rolled his eyes. “I do not expect any trouble but, even so, nobles have tried to take advantage of me before. You might argue that they succeeded. Either way, I know how to recognise it.”

Meve gave her son a hard look. He met her gaze.

“Go on, mother. I can manage.”

“I know you can, my son” she said, smirking, “Just don’t agree to build the Braxmore’s hare racing circuit. It’s an absurd notion and they are either charlatans or fools.”

Meve and Reynard made their apologies to the attendees, Meve doing her best impression of a weary ruler with a headache – it wasn’t much of a stretch. They made their way out of the hallway and down the stairs into the entrance hall. There, Isbel showed them through the kitchen which was miraculously empty. She passed Meve a woven bag of clothes and gestured towards a store closet for Meve to change in.

In the bag, there was a pair of breeches, riding boots, a shirt and cloak with a hood. In the store closet, amongst the hanging onions and garlic, Meve gratefully removed her skirts and veil and, with some fiddling, managed to remove her corset without help. She did her best to place her mourning gown into the bag tidily but, after it was clear that there was substantially more fabric going into the bag than had come out, she resorted to the tried-and-true method of forcing it.

She emerged from the store room to find Isbel negotiating with Reynard to leave his armour and weapons behind.

“I entirely agree that nothing untoward is likely to happen.” He said hotly, “However, as her majesty’s aide-de-camp it would neither be proper nor advisable for me to appear in her company without some indicator of my station and responsibility.”

“May I venture, Reynard” Meve interjected, “That, in this instance, you are Gascon’s brother-at-arms. He would not have you celebrate his memory sinking into the dirt with the weight of your breastplate.”

“On th’ contrary,” Reynard said, “I think he would have relished that image.”

“I would also add that you may wish to leave your armour, general” Isbel interjected gently, “for the mount I brought is unlikely to carry two bodies and a full suit armour.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come see.”

The mage led the pair outside through the servant’s exit. There in the street, a grand total of two horses were tethered. One, a solid-looking chestnut, was obviously intended for the pair of them while the second, a white mare, was not on account of its looking like it may keel over at any moment. Isbel stood beside the sickly horse and ran her hand along its neck. To Meve’s surprise, it whinnied and was apparently very much to be alive.

“Now _this_ mare,” Isbel indicated the chestnut, “Is from your majesty’s own stables and travelled with us to meet with King Demavend last month. It is recently-shod and should carry the weight of both of you easily. But adding the general’s full ceremonial armour may be a bridge too far.”

Meve could see Reynard’s jaw tensing as it did when he was anxious. She tried to think of a scenario which would be less embarrassing for him. Perhaps if Isbel rode with herself while Reynard took the other horse. But when she inspected Isbel’s mare, it seemed a miracle that it could even lift its own body weight. Certainly, Isbel was shorter and more wiry than Meve, but the queen also couldn’t help but suspect that magic was responsible for this horse’s continued existence.  

She and Reynard looked at each other. His face was unreadable. As she often did, she took the initiative.

“Come, Count Odo. We have weathered many troubles in our time together, I daresay sharing a mount shall be within our ability.”

Reynard clicked his heels together sourly before turning to walk away, muttering something about going back to the storeroom to leave his armour. He returned soon thereafter wearing his light brown gambeson and britches. The look on his face was of one forced into the street stark naked. His ceremonial sword was still attached at his hip but he looked so grim that neither woman questioned it.

Meve vaulted upon the chestnut mare. She looked determinedly ahead as Reynard did the same behind her. She consciously kept her breathing regular, or at least what she thought was regular, as his arms came either side of her torso to reach the reigns.  

As the two horses proceeded over cobblestones towards the city gate, she resisted the urge to lean back into his chest, into the faint smell of sweat, soap and leather – the profile of diligent and tidy man but also one who had recently been wearing armour.

After some time, she suggested “Reynard – you’d best breathe lest you pass out.”

Apparently surprised, he jerked the reins so awkwardly that he almost sent the pair of them into a fence.

“Apologies, your Grace, I was…elsewhere” he said hurriedly.

Meve smirked openly, knowing that he would not see. Unless she was very much mistaken, she saw Isbel bend over her reins stifling a laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

Isbel must have discussed her plans with the guard at the city gate ahead of time for it opened upon their approach. The two mares passed out into the countryside. Taking in a full breath of cool air, Meve felt life returning to her limbs. The newly grown grain in the fields, awash with the milky moonlight, dipped and rolled in the faint breeze while the farmhouses alongside them glowed, lit from within by candles. Meve felt herself exhale, the strain of the previous weeks, nay, months leaving her body as she did so. 

They shortly came to the small village of the Three Brooks. Out behind one of the barns, a large group were gathered together in merrymaking. The party was made up of the local villagers, the Strays of Spalla, some of Meve’s Rivian soldiers and, running out to greet them, was – 

“Gabor!” 

The dwarf waved enthusiastically as Reynard drew their mount to a halt. Isbel did the same nearby and swiftly dismounted. Against expectations, the white mare did not expire on the spot.  

“It’s good to see y’, yer Grace. Would’ve come to fetch yer meself but I’m still a bit cowed with yer noble folk. When it comes ter appearances, Isbel has no such concerns.”

“All the better to feel the Earth the sustains us” Isbel sang, doing a mock gigue in the long grass, kicking her bare feet up for all to see. Meve and Reynard chuckled gladly, the first sincere laughter they had shared all day. Reynard dismounted first before turning to offer a hand to his queen. As they did so, Gabor hissed at Isbel, “What happened to the third horse I sent with yer? Yer know I wouldn’t’ make the queen share a--hmmm?” Isbel shushed him. 

Meve heard this exchange as she dismounted and, when she felt Reynard’s hand tighten slightly around hers, she suspected that he had as well. She wondered how long it had been since they had last touched hands without gauntlets. 

“Yer Grace, not to impose but, we were wonderin’ if ye’d be so kind as ter say a few words?” Gabor asked, approaching the Queen, “I know ye’ve ‘ardly ‘ad a chance ter catch yer breath. But even a short toast would mean the world.”

“I’ll be brief but of course I can.” Meve said smoothly, “You’d best fetch me some wine first.”

Gabor beamed and rushed off towards the food table. It was smaller and less lavishly furnished than the one she had just come from. But Meve could still see plenty of fresh breads, fruits and even a suckling pig. As she watched, one whole haunch disappeared off the pig as Knickers the dog performed one of its disappearing tricks. 

And beside the table--

“Oh.” Meve sighed. Gascon’s cap sat atop a barrel, surrounded by candles and what Meve assumed were tokens of other soldiers lost in the Rivian battle. At the base of the barrel lay flowers and tankards of still frothing ale. Reynard stepped up behind her and she felt her hand reach back in search of his. But their reverie was interrupted by Gabor who appeared at her side with a large cup that was filled to the brim with wine. 

Meve took the cup while Gabor whistled loudly to silence the party. Taking a deep breath to collect her thoughts, Meve planted her feet as she always did before speaking to her army and subjects. 

“I have no intention of keeping you long from your diversions” she began, “So let me say first, thank you for your generous invitation to share the fireside with you. As many of you know by now, for those of us who live, our stories does not end when the battle is won. For all of us, there are many labours yet to be bested before we can truly return to the lives we once had.”

She paused for a moment - it was hardly the stirring sentiment that she had hoped for. Even her own shoulders had begun to slump as she realised that she had no idea when her work may be done. She had pushed through the past months in the hope of eventually breaking the surface and taking air then. But it had been naive. She looked at the small, candlelit shrine around that familiar cloth cap. She changed tack. 

“Gascon was not the only good man we lost,” she began again, “But he was the one that I knew best. To share only one story - I learned this only after the battle for Rivia Castle - but while sorting his belongings ahead of his burial, we found a small bag of my clothes. I was reminded of the weeks during our march back into Rivia. I had started missing pairs of socks, shirts and, yes, even the odd pair of unmentionables. “

There was laughter from among the Strays and barely contained snorts from the Rivian soldiers who were uncertain how to respond to such a pronouncement from their Queen, especially given the face that their general must have been making. Meve continued. 

“I was correct in suspecting Knickers the dog in their disappearance--” there was a woof of recognition, “But I had never considered that she may have a partner in crime. It is my understanding that our Duke of Dogs, showing himself to be a true optimist, intended to sell them on at a premium, following our victory. Ever the opportunist, Gascon Brossard was a wiley thief, a hardened rogue and,” Meve grew serious again, “despite his best efforts, he was a good man.

“So, in that vein, I want you to remember that every hour we spend above ground is an opportunity and I encourage you to seize each chance with both hands. However, that lesson is for tomorrow. For now, let us drink in honour of those whose blood rendered us this victory and each opportunity to come. Gascon was not the only friend we lost and I encourage you, tonight, to share stories. In doing so, those that we love may live yet one more night.”

She poured wine out on the ground. 

“To the fallen. To the future.”

Meve drank what remained in her cup while the Strays threw howls to the moon. As the calls died, Meve looked at Reynard and almost burst out laughing immediately.

“Why so grim, Count Odo?” she managed at length.

“If the blaggard were yet living, I would have him flogged.”

“But since he does not?”

“...I shall be content with admiring his courage.”

“Oh come now, are you trying to tell me that the idea of him trying to sell my drawers at some farmer’s market isn’t hysterical?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment, your Majesty.”

Meve stared at him in amazement and wondered for a moment exactly what it was that she loved about him. Unperturbed she patted him on the shoulder: “Never mind. The lance up your bum is what makes you you, I suppose.”

He looked hurt. “Your Grace.”

“Forgive me, Reynard. That was unkind. But do try to enjoy to yourself tonight - please?”

Her general’s face softened. “I shall try, your Grace. We have been at work these past weeks without end. If you would allow, I --”

Meve cursed herself for waiting for him to finish speak. At that that moment Gabor, pushing a playful Knickers away, appeared between them. He was accompanied by a pair of Rivian soldiers.

“Sir!” The soldiers saluted their general.

“At ease, men. We won’t be needing that here,” Reynard conceded.

“They’ve got a gwent tournie goin’ with th’ Strays,” Gabor explained, “And they’re a man short - not a dwarf joke” he added. 

“Come play a hand, sir. Gascon once told us that you play the Scoia’tael faction surprisingly well.”

“Only because he played the Northern faction so ill.” Reynard rebutted. He looked apologetically at Meve who pushed him forward. 

“Go on. You don’t need my permission.”

Reynard joined the game. Gabor followed him and stood by the overturned box that the Strays had fashioned into a makeshift card table. 

Meve visited the food table, grateful for the opportunity to take in some fruit and plain bread after the rich foods of the previous event. She chatted briefly but happily with any villagers and Strays brave enough to address her and she resisted the urge to go oversee the gwent game. At length she spotted a small circle of women near the rear wall of the barn. Isbel was amongst them. She caught the mage’s eye and walked over. The woman was sitting on a chair, braiding flowers into the hair of a young woman. Meve watched as she tied off her handiwork and straightened some of the blooms. Satisfied with her handiwork, Isbel smiled and sent the maid off to the dancer’s circle where a young man waited. 

“Come sit with me, your Grace. You may have the same”

Meve sat at Isbel’s feet beside a child who tugged at her mother’s skirt to inform her that it was the queen sitting right there next to them, really. Her mother hushed her and told her to sit still ‘lest she braid her hair crooked. 

Isbel’s fingers unwound the braid from the bun on Meve’s head. She removed the tie at its end and gently began to loosen her hair. With every intersection freed, Meve felt the tension in her forehead ease. Sometimes she forgot the simplest things - like that having one’s hair tied tight all day was the surest route to a splitting headache. 

“How do you fare, your grace?” Isbel asked gently, now brushing out the ends of Meve’s hair, “You seemed as the living dead when I found you.”

Knickers the dog trotted over to her and lay its head in Meve’s lap in a rare moment of placidity.

“Let me put it simply: I needed this. Nothing is more cheering than to be oneself amongst those whom you love well. Acknowledging some key absences of course.”

“Your son does right to take your place tonight. And I suspect that this is the send-off Gascon would have chosen for himself.”

Meve was pensive. She surveyed the scene before her. A roaring fire surrounded by dancers and revellers. Reynard and Gabor sat amongst their group of Strays and Rivian soldiers on the other side of the fire. The latter was chatting happily while the former was leant on the table, surveying his hand of cards although smiling slightly whenever the dwarf cracked off one of his blue jokes. As long as Meve had known Reynard, he had sat apart from his men, both preferring to keep his own counsel and eager to maintain an appropriate distance. So she was pleased to see him enjoying company even if only under the pretence of filling in as a card-player. 

She thought of the two scenes taking place this night, one within the city and one outside it. She thought of her lands and of the war and of those that were no longer with them. The North’s recovery really would be the work of years if not decades. This farm upon which they celebrated and honoured Gascon could not be rich and yet...She marvelled at the ability of people to find moments of light and contentment within the dark. 

“Pardon me if I am impertinent, Isbel. But do you still worship the Great Sun?”

“My beliefs are a covenant between myself and the world alone, your Grace. But I’m willing to offer that I never truly worshipped the Sun God - at least, not him alone.”

“Then where do you believe the dead go?”

“If pressed, I would concede that I do not know. And it is for this reason that we must cherish life as we find it.”

Isbel had begun to brush the hair at Meve’s scalp. She closed her eyes as the rounded teeth of the brush massaged the top of her head and her temples. The pair sat in comfortable silence as the sound of music circled them - a scratch band consisting of a pair of fiddlers, a pan piper and lyre player had been pulled together from the surrounding villages. 

At length, Isbel put down the brush and began to pick out wild flowers from the bundle on her lap to slip into Meve’s hair. The queen opened her eyes and looked over to where Reynard was still playing cards. It seemed that he was winning his round. While he would never betray his advantage with a smile, his eyes gleamed with the thrill of a plan well-executed. She had seen it before on the battlefield. 

“I do believe that he was envious of Gascon, you know?” She said.

“Your Grace?” Isbel was not used to the queen being quite so candid. She began to braid Meve’s hair loosely, weaving in wild daisy and cornflower and hydrangea and lavender as she plaited. Meve breathed deeply, inhaling the warm scent of the lavender. 

“They had their moments. But I believe that, before the end, Reynard honestly envied Gascon’s spirit and ease.”

“And I suspect that the latter envied the moral surety of the former.”

“I envy it even.”

“...you watch him closely, your Grace.”

Meve was silent a while, deliberating. At last she confessed to the mage: “We came to an agreement not long ago. He understood that I look for something more from him now. I’ve waited for a chance to talk further with him...But, since then, fears have begun to grow in my mind. I begin to doubt myself and doubt whether I am right to ask him to...be mine. I’d rather put these doubts to rest before broaching the matter further.”

Isbel tied the end of Meve’s plait and threaded a few more flowers into the crown of her hair. 

“On the eve of battle, my lady, how would you manage your doubts?”

Meve didn’t respond. Isbel brushed stray hairs and a few loose petals off Meve’s shoulders. “Your Grace, you have suffered much. You have faced choices that no single person should be forced to face and which have had no clear answer. But, for the most part, your decisions have been just and considered. That is a reflection of the people whose counsel you keep. I suspect that you already know whose counsel you value above all others.”

Meve turned to find Reynard’s eyes on her. His expression was soft and he did not turn away when she returned his gaze with a small smile. The game was over, apparently. 

A new song had started, something more leisurely than the sprightly group dances that had been played previously. 

Isbel chuckled. “I thought that my being here would be too insurmountable an obstacle but I am pleased to be proved wrong.” 

Meve hadn’t time to ask Isbel’s meaning before Reynard place down a his tankard and cross the fireside to them. 

“I believe that I yet owe you one dance, your Grace?”


	3. Chapter 3

Meve was caught off-guard but took Reynard’s hand nevertheless, acutely aware that every head around the campfire was turned towards them. He pulled her up, his calloused fingertips against her palm. Isbel, blessedly, did not tease them but, at this point, did suggest “perhaps best to leave the weapon here, general? I can assure you that you’ll find no Nilfgaardians by our fireside. Barring myself of course.”

Reynard shrugged and removed his sword and scabbard, laying it by Isbel’s chair. There were whoops and cheers from around the fireplace as Reynard led Meve forward. But it was better than hushed whispers behind cupped hands, Meve supposed.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she whispered to Reynard as she slipped her free hand onto his shoulder.

“Not especially,” he conceded, “But while we honour Gascon’s life, allow me to be grateful that he is not here to castigate me for my poor footwork.”

Meve laughed. “Indeed. Also I feel compelled to warn you that, while I would trust these people with my life, I do not trust them not to sell your sword to the first available buyer.”

The Queen had danced with her general before, but only at the most grand balls when it was expected that the King and Queen would share their favour amongst their advisors. Consequently, the pair fared well enough at the unfamiliar dance and, lacking a source for humour, the catcalls and cheers quickly died down as the revellers returned to their drinks and conversations. The other pairs of dancers were too lost in their own shared worlds to pay much attention to the queen and her general.

"How many years has it been since we last danced, Count? Ten? How much fairer we must have been then."

"I agree in relation to myself but must fervently disagree with respect to your Majesty."

Meve danced in silence while trying to decide whether Reynard had just complimented her or whether it was simply his job to say as such. He, meanwhile, was scanning the crowd out of the corner of his eye. 

“Pardon the observation but, you look renewed. I’m relieved, your Grace.” Reynard said, once he was certain that they were no longer being watched.

“Is this small talk?”

“Your health is not a small concern, your Grace, especially to me. But, may I add, that you yet appear melancholy.”

Meve chuckled. “Ever you know me better than I know myself, Count Odo.”

“Is it a matter of which I may be of some assistance?”

“How is it,” Meve exclaimed with sincere frustration, “That even in this place, you seek to serve me.”

“It is the purpose to which I have pledged myself, your Grace.”

“Indeed,” she conceded with some annoyance. She could feel tension growing in her jaw but wasn’t sure where it was coming from. “But if you must know...you are correct. My heart is heavy.”

“Gascon deserved better than he received from life. You are not wrong to mourn his lot.”

Meve forced herself to take a deep breath. Reynard was very close. His steady gaze and warmth were disarming and she could feel the little doubts and tensions that she had pushed down inside of her beginning to wriggle uncomfortably.

“In quiet moments...I find myself, even now...” she said, trying to keep her voice even “...I return to that decision, trying to find some configuration which might have spared him. On the balance of it, I made the most prudent choice. But then I remember that room. He and his men slaughtered. It was always a suicide mission.”

Reynard wrapped his arm further around her waist and rested his jaw against the crown of her head. Meve was surprised. This time, there was no bashfulness - no boyish clumsiness. But it was so like her general to put his own fears aside whenever he sensed that he might be of use.

“We’ve been over this, your Grace,” he said gently, “Gascon knew th’ risks. You were important enough to him that he chose to lay himself down for your cause. Beyond that, there is no intelligent conclusion to be drawn from a good man dying in battle.”

“But it’s not only that,” Meve insisted. “It’s…” She could feel her breath growing shallower as the distress she had weighed down with an endless list of tasks and objectives was slowly released.

“Your Grace?”

“When I remember what happened, I can’t help but think…” She tried. “I imagine what would have happened if he had not put himself forward. It had been your idea, Reynard. If he had not volunteered...if it had been you that I sent to certain death. When I consider the alternative I find myself-”

“Your Grace. There is no virtue in that line of thinking.”

“But it’s too late,” Meve moaned quietly, miserable. “Reginald destroyed his family and I have killed the man himself. And now I diminish his sacrifice in the knowledge that, perhaps, if I had to choose between the two of you, I--”

Reynard now stopped them. With a firm push on the small of her back, he led her away behind a large oak, just outside the light of the fire, and had her sit against its trunk. Her back against the cool wood, Meve covered her eyes with her hands and endeavoured to slow her now haggard breathing, hoping that no one had seen.

“Meve,” Reynard said, taking a hand, “No more. I am grateful to live yet I too must come to accept that I continue while Gascon does not. This is the lot of those who survive war to see peace. True, you were saddled with making that final choice. But you were not the final arbiter of his life. He lived by his own terms and nothing that you think now can diminish his life as he lived it.”

Meve, one hand still shielding her eyes and the other gripping Reynard’s, took another deep breath. She held it for three seconds and then slowly exhaled.

“You are correct, Reynard, of course. Thank you - I do feel a little better.”

She felt him brush one shameful, burning tear away from her cheek. She opened her eyes and only then realised how close his face was to hers. He seemed to remember himself at the same moment and stood abruptly.

“A glass of wine will ease your spirits...your Grace”

Meve openly groaned at hearing “your Grace” again. He turned to leave her but was stopped when she grabbed his trouser leg.

“Don’t you dare” she said.

Reynard looked taken aback. She took his hand and tugged slightly to indicate that she would like to stand. He pulled her up and she, in turn, pulled him further away from the fire. They hopped a fence to enter the paddock a short distance beyond the canopy of the oak tree. The moon was directly above and hid the stars from view even though it was a clear night.

Here, she released his hand and sat. He obediently took a seat beside her.

“Now,” she said at length, “we shall have Big Talk.”

Reynard exhaled audibly. After a moment, he said, “This isn’t about Gascon, is it? Do you wish to discuss our conversation about...to discuss our conversation from the mess tent?”

She nodded resolutely.

Reynard seemed unsure of where to put his hands and looked determinedly into the middle distance as he attempted to speak. “Your Majesty - Meve. I must confess that I have...I have been a coward.”

Meve waited for him to continue, daring the universe to try and throw one of their friends into the middle of their conversation again. But no such disturbance came. Reynard found himself.

“Since your husband’s passing – indeed before that. I believe that I have aimed to ingratiate myself to you by being of use and I flatter myself that I have been successful in this endeavour. But what you ask of me now…what you wish of me...” he sighed. “I fear that, with a change of context, you may find that I am not as…”

He squeezed his eyes shut as if it might make it easier to deliver bad news, “...I am not a young man and I have spent my manhood as a soldier, not a member of court and not as a companion. I haven’t any charms to recommend me to --”

Meve placed her hand on his shoulder.  

“Reynard, now your turn to hush. I understand your concerns.” She took his hand in hers. “But I know my own mind. Your temperance and wisdom are traits that I value in a general - true. However they are also characters that I admire in you as a man and dear friend. It shames me...to think that I may have lost you...lost you at any point in the war without your knowing how dearly important you are to me.”

Reynard looked at her in wonder. “Meve, You--”

“I’m not finished.”

“Oh.”

Meve took a long breath before continuing. It was now or never.

“Reynard,” she began slowly, withdrawing her hand as she arranged her thoughts. “For many years you have served me. My right hand. My trusted advisor and constant servant. It has not been your place to deny me anything and, in most cases, I suspect that was not in your nature. And it is that which makes me fear”

“Meve?”

“I am no maid, Reynard. By some accounts, I never was, having wed so young. Regardless, I am not naive. I loved my husband - but I have no illusions of how many enter into matrimony with unequal feelings. The end result is at best indifference and, at worst, mutual unhappiness.”

She pulled a wildflower from her hair and picked at the stem. She was finding it difficult to be forthright and was unaccustomed to the experience.

“What I _mean_ to say is that...when I spoke with you, I fear that you may have interpreted my wish, either in your mind or in your heart, as an instruction or as some problem that your Queen needed fixed. What I mean to say, is that, if you were to become mine, I would wish that you do so upon your own free will, nay, upon your own choosing.”  

Meve ran the edge of her thumb nail up the stem of the flower in her hands, she could feel his gaze upon her. It seemed an age before he spoke again.

“I must confess,” Reynard said, “I…I begin to fear that I cannot give you what you wish.”

Meve’s stopped fidgeting with the flower.

“Oh. I see,” she said, grateful that he could not see her face in the dark. “I will not pretend that I am not sorry to hear that. But--,” she wanted to get away but wasn’t sure that her feet would carry her. “But, as I said, I am no maid and I shall not pine as one. Let us never speak of this again.”

She planted her hand on the grass to stand but Reynard grabbed her wrist before she could do so.

“Your Grace – Meve – my apologies, I misspoke. I did not mean it that way.”

“Then what is it that you meant? Out with it.” Meve’s cheeks and ears were burning.

“I – I simply do not know how to say…it…it would break my heart to leave your side. It hurts me - deeply - that you may read my intentions as insincere or duty-bound. However, I know not how to convince you otherwise.”  

Meve looked across at him, his hand still gripping hers. In the moonlight she could see half his face. Its expression was serious and his gaze unwavering. Unsure of what best to do, she swung her free hand around and cuffed him on the side of the head.

“Meve?!”

Ears still hot, Meve crossed her arms and looked away. “That was idiotic. You frightened me and I shall hear no complaints.”

They sat in stunned silence for a moment before the sound of laughter broke the quiet. Not the raucous, explosive guffaws of youth, but something more tempered and knowing. Meve shuffled closer to Reynard, who was still rubbing the side of his face, so that their shoulders touched.

“But all joking aside, I was serious, Reynard.” She said, resting her head against his shoulder, “How am I to know that you stay by my side for me alone, rather than duty?”

“Our circumstances are...unique - true. But, in truth, do lovers, young or old, ever truly know for certain? Know the true depth and force of the other’s affection?”

“No,” Meve sighed, “No I suppose not. As always, I suppose I shall have to trust you...and trust that you shall advise me, as you always have done.”

Reynard turned slightly towards hers so that their foreheads touched.

“And I shall prove myself worthy of your trust every day. Meve, I--”

She kissed him then. He seemed surprised at first. But after a moment, he met her, placing his free hand against her cheek, his finger tips laying light upon her skin.

They remained together in conversation. By the time they mounted their horse to return to the castle, rosy dawn was appearing on the horizon and the campfire had reduced to embers which would glow, quietly and persistently for several hours yet. As predicted, Reynard’s sword disappeared that night and was discovered several months later, for sale at a market in Aedirn although, by this time, its owner was far too in love and beloved to mind.


End file.
